Although its glory is of the past, and nearly two centuries have intervened between the latest record of its greatness and its present state,--although it has been silent all that time,--a solemn silence broken only by the false love-note of an unworthy minstrel, for the names of “Waller and Sacharissa” dishonour rather than glorify its gray walls--who does not turn to Penshurst as to a refreshing fountain by the wayside of wearying History? Penshurst--“the seat of the Sidneys”--adjoins the village to which it gives a name. It is situated in the weald of Kent, nearly six miles south-west of Tonbridge, and about [Illustration] thirty miles from London. The neighbourhood is remarkably primitive. As an example of the prevailing character of the houses, we have copied a group that stands at the entrance to the Church-yard--a small cluster of quiet cottages, behind which repose the rude forefathers of the Hamlet, with brave Knights of imperishable names; and facing which, is an Elm of prodigious size and age, that has seen generations after generations flourish and decay. The sluggish Medway creeps lazily round the Park, which consists of about 400 acres, finely wooded, and happily diversified with hill and dale. A double row of Beech-trees of some extent, preserves the name of “Sacharissa’s Walk;” and a venerable Oak, the trunk of which is hollowed by Time, is pointed out as the veritable tree that was planted on the day of Sir Philip’s birth; of which Rare Ben Jonson thus writes,-- “That taller tree which of a nut was set, At his great birth when all the Muses met:” --to which Waller makes reference as “the sacred mark of noble Sidney’s birth;” concerning which Southey also has some lines; and from which a host of lesser Poets have drawn inspiration.